"What's gotten yer knickers in a wad, Paul? Ye've been off the trolley fer weeks!" George's outburst tore Paul out of his daydream. It was the beginning of July, and the school year was just about finished. Not that George and Paul were at the Inny much anymore; the Silver Beetles were a proper performing band now and played two gigs a week: Wirral on Thursdays and Wallasey on Saturdays. They had started out trying to combine school and performing, but that had become too demanding so they only went to school the first half of the week, and were considering abandoning their education completely – already would have if they hadn't been dreading their parents' wrath. It was a lovely day, so George and Paul had made a beeline for the most secluded spot of the courtyard, where they unscrupulously used their upper student status and reputation as 'professional like, proper' musicians to chase some younger boys from the spot they coveted.
Soon, their blazers lay forgotten on the ground, and they smoked lazily, looking very casual and rebellious – or so they saw themselves – with their school ties loosened, sleeves rolled up above their elbows, and their shirts untucked and partially unbuttoned. Had a member of staff walked by their hiding place, they most likely would have received detentions for skiving, as well as for violating school dress policy. Of course, despite their carefully styled Teddy quiffs and rule-defying state of undress, it was still glaringly obvious they were wearing school uniforms, which severely compromised their bad boy image. Lower students may have been impressed by them, someone like John wouldn't hesitate to remind them they were mere lads who very much looked the part. Paul had closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, allowing the sun to warm his face. For the umpteenth time, recent events repeated themselves in his mind.
The morning after his birthday, Paul had woken up feeling terribly hungover; and it wasn't just because he'd gotten pissed. John had been gone by the time Paul managed to drag himself out of bed, and he had been carefully avoiding him since. They first saw each other again at their Thursday gig, which had been particularly tense. John had arrived exactly at the agreed upon time, and had buggered off the moment they finished, mumbling something about Mimi expecting him home. During the performance, he had made quite a show of acting normal, whilst very skilfully coming up with ways to avoid direct interaction with Paul. The other lads didn't appear to pick up on it much, but it was glaringly obvious to Paul. He had bitten his tongue and played the game equally as convincing as John, hoping their push-me-pull-you strategy wouldn't ruin their chances of working things out. So far, John hadn't shown any sign of wanting to talk about what happened, so Paul focused on George, or at least attempted to. Going by his younger friend's tone of voice, he had been failing miserably.
"I'm sorry, Geo. Just a bit knackered, is all. Bit of an 'eadache, y'know. 'M fine, really." He mustered a smile, hoping it would be convincing. But by the way George's dark brown eyes darkened to nearly black, and the clenching of his jaw, Paul knew he'd have to do better if he didn't want to end up on his todd. Eventually, he threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat, knowing George would be quite content to stare daggers at Paul until he received a satisfying answer. "Alright man, you win. John and I've had a barney, and he's been swervin' on me since. It's been a drag! Now sack it with the starin', alright?"
Finally, George looked away, redirecting his attention to his cigarette. He took a long drag and held his breath a few seconds before carefully exhaling. "Yeah, I reckoned it'd be something like that," he muttered. "Did something happen on yer birthday, then? John seemed a bit mingy to me. Thought he was getting' the lurgy, I'm tellin' ye. Didn't though, did he? Been dead shirty he has, trying too 'ard to act normal, like."
Paul felt a jolt of surprise at that declaration. He didn't think anyone, least of all George, had caught on; didn't think anyone was able to read John and him like they always read each other. He should stop underestimating George, he tried to tell himself. Nothing ever did seem to escape his attention. Still waters, 'n dat. His gaze followed the trajectory of the stub of George's bifter as it got flicked away. "You can talk to me y'know, Paul. I'm yer mate too, remember?"
"Yeah, of course you are, Geo!" Paul's smile was genuine this time. "'S just that I'm not really sure what happened, y'know? 'M tellin' ye, mate; it's been doin' me 'ead in." Though this wasn't entirely true, Paul simply couldn't tell what really happened; not without speaking to John first. To his relief, George seemed content to accept Paul's reply this time. If he noticed Paul wasn't totally straight-from-the-shoulder, he wasn't showing it, and that made Paul immediately feel much better. "Ta, mate," he said, as he gently nudged his shoulder against George's. He had the feeling something big was about to come crashing down upon them, and knowing he'd have a friend around if and when that happened meant the world to Paul.
The 'something big' Paul had anticipated did indeed come crashing down in the first week of August.
Paul enjoyed the Friday mornings after a gig. The house would usually be empty, allowing him to have a lie-in and go about his business without having to entertain anyone – particularly Mike, who somehow appeared to be under the impression he was going to become the drummer in the band. The McCartney brothers were thick as thieves and Mike got along great with the lads, but it was quite obvious to Paul that his baby brother would never be asked to join.
He was having a particularly lazy day; it was half noon and he was still in his pyjamas and quite content to stay that way a little longer. He was sat on the sitting room floor, halfway through cleaning and restringing his guitar when the doorbell rang utterly unexpectedly, causing Paul to jump and knock over the bottle of lemon oil, which was all that was needed to blow the lid off the simmering frustrations that had gradually been building up in the previous weeks. He shot off into a loud and elaborate series of curses as he tried to practice damage control.
The bell rang a second time, more urgently now, so Paul forced himself away from the mess on the floor and shuffled into the hallway, thinking that whoever chose this moment to come calling, certainly needed to work on their timing. He pulled the door open and just froze on the spot.
"Alright, la'? Yer lookin' like a right meff, mate. Miss me that much, did ye? Anyroad, can I come in or d'ye want me to do one?"
"John... yeah, come'ead," he stammered, aware of how stupid he sounded. He turned on his heels and made for the sitting room, where he proceeded to clean the last of the spilled oil off the rug, using the momentary distraction to regain some composure.
"Hmmm, smells lemony." John had claimed his favourite spot on the sofa, and was now looking at what Paul was doing. "I hate to break it to ye mate, but that stuff is meant for fingerboards, not fer makin' the rug smell all nice like." When Paul refused to take the bait, John lit a ciggy and softened his expression. "Is that what caused that most charming display of profanity then? I thought you'd seen me coming and wanted me to bugger off, really." His casual banter failed to hide the subtle insecurity that told Paul John actually had expected to be told to leave.
He faced John and nodded in the general direction of the packet of bifters on the table. "Giz one then, la'." The two boys smoked in silence for a few minutes, each wrapped up in their own thoughts until Paul decided someone had to start talking if they were going to get anywhere and since John had been the one to take the first step, it was only fair that he, Paul, take the next. "I don't know what brought you here John, but I'm glad to see you. I've missed you, mate."
John inclined his head. "Missed you too, Paul." He seemed at odds with himself for a moment, then started to talk. "I'm sorry Macca, I've been a right git. Should've talked to ye when I had the chance, don't know why I didn't, to be honest. I've been dead shirty with ye, when ye didn't do anything wrong. What can I say, I'm an 'eadcase."
Paul failed to suppress a chuckle. "Is right John, ye really are! Look, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it. I just want us to be okay, y'know? Yer me best mate, 'n dat."
"Ta la', the feelin's mutual. I really am sorry, alright? Don't think I can talk about it yet, though. Maybe after we get back from Germany..." His tone had been very casual and at first, Paul didn't catch on. Then, he saw the winkle in John's eyes and the last of his words sunk in.
"Ye wha? Who's going to Germany?"
Unable to restrain his enthusiasm any longer, John blurted out, "Well, we are, aren't we? that is, the Silver Beetles, who'd ye think I was talking about, me arl fella? We've been booked to play at some club in Hamburg. We're leavin' on the sixteenth and we're set fer a couple o' months!"
For a brief moment, they simply stared at each other. Then, as if someone had given them a cue, they jumped up and engaged in a frantic sort of dance, jumping around the sitting room, exchanging playful punches, cheering, and laughing like jackals, all tension forgotten and all hurt forgiven. Eventually, they settled down long enough for Paul to wrap an arm around John's shoulder.
"Where are we going, Johnny?"
"To the top!"
"And where's that?"
"The toppermost of the poppermost!"